


You Only Live Twice

by Thirdeyeblinkings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 8th year, Drinking Games, Harry's birthday mini fest, M/M, Party Games, Poor Harry, Veritaserum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirdeyeblinkings/pseuds/Thirdeyeblinkings
Summary: Because if you can't name your deepest desires under veritaserum on your half birthday, stuffed into a locker with an arrogant prat that you are insanely attracted to, when can you? Am I right?





	You Only Live Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaanyway. This is sort of filling my own prompt because I am trash for Hogwarts 8th Year Shenanigans and Tomfoolery. Give it all to me right now. Yesterday. Agh.

He regretted telling them that he always felt a little sorry that his birthday fell outside the Hogwarts school year. It was true, but he regretted saying it. Because when your friends hear something like that, and it's your last year at school, and you've recently come through a war, you can bet your last knut that they will do everything in their power to make up for it, despite any and all protests on your part.

It was 8pm on January 31st, and Harry's Half Birthday Bash was in full swing.  The Boy Who Lived Twice was powerless to stop it, which would have been fine any other year. Would have been downright wonderful, actually, to celebrate a birthday with a real party, with all of his true friends.

The thing was, though, that Hogwarts parties had taken on a certain _tone_ since the war. "YOLO," Seamus called it, always up on the muggle slang, only he liked to say "YOLT" in front of Harry, thinking it an especially clever joke. You only live twice, indeed. Harry had lived long enough to see the rebuilding of Hogwarts, the well-intentioned but misplaced attempts at interhouse unity, and the uncomfortable reality of Slytherins and Gryffindors sharing a common space. People claimed they wanted to live like the war never happened, but that wasn't it at all. What they meant, Harry thought, was that they wanted to live like the war didn't define them. And they were succeeding there. The war didn't define them. Raunchy party games did, apparently.

One would think that one's opinion on one's own half-birthday festivities would mean something, but apparently not. Because when Ron suggested they play "Seven Minutes in Hell" (he had to have gotten that name wrong), Harry's "absolutely not" fell on deaf ears. "What's that, Harry? You'll go first? Of course you will, birthday boy. We wouldn't have it any other way!" Some friends he had there.

"Listen up, bitches," Theodore Nott crowed to the boisterous crowd gathered in the common room. "Rule Refresher: When it's your turn, you choose three slips of parchment from these three cups: one cup has the names of everyone here, one cup contains a selection of locations, and the last cup . . ." he paused for dramatic effect, "contains the name of the potion you will be imbibing." The room erupted into cheers. Harry just shook his head. Sometimes he wished he owned a T-shirt that read, "I Can't Believe I Defeated Voldemort For This."

At least "potion" was a very loose term in this case. Most of the "potions" included were simply the names of of alcoholic beverages, but if you were particularly unlucky, you could get stuck with a magical one. And Harry was _not_ feeling lucky, birthday or no. He risked a glance at Malfoy, draped over an overstuffed armchair, smirking that infuriating smirk of his. He _would_ be enjoying this. While Harry had to give him credit for keeping his head down most of the time, it was evident Malfoy still couldn't resist a bit of schadenfreude when it came to Harry's social misfortunes. Once a prat, always a prat. It was strangely comforting, actually, except for when it wasn't.

Because the truth was, now that the war was over, and Malfoy had done a 180 on the whole Death Eater thing, and had started making nice with Gryffindors, and dressing like someone who was definitely _not_ his father, Harry couldn't ignore that _thing_ that had always been there, simmering under the surface. He used to discount it as misplaced aggression, or typical adolescent . . . _energy_ that just didn't have a proper outlet at the time. But then it was eighth year, and he picked things up with Ginny, and that energy had plenty of places to go, only it kept wanting to go somewhere _else_. At least Ginny had the balls he didn't, and called it off before things got embarrassing.

So excuse him if he didn't jump at the chance to make a fool of himself at his own party, in the company of the one person who would enjoy it the most, the one person he could not _abide_ right now, lest he, Harry Potter, of Foot-in-Mouth-Disease, UK, say something he could never take back or live down, no matter how many times he'd come back from a killing curse.

"Step right up, Harry! Don't be shy!" Nott bellowed. The three cups hovered in the air beside him. It should be noted that anyone was allowed to back out of these games at any time. No one was ever forced to participate. But when you dangle a challenge in front of a Gryffindor, or a Slytherin for that matter, it was about as close to "forcing" as you could get. Back down from a silly little game? Yeah, right. Never happened, never would.  Harry straightened his shoulders and did as he was told.

First cup: Draco Malfoy. Shit. A series of "Oooooooh"s flooded the air. Harry sighed resignedly, in what he desperately hoped was a "whatever" response. He didn't dare turn to see what Malfoy thought of this. 

Second cup: Gryffindor Quidditch lockers. Okay, not terrible. Better than a broom closet. Roomier, at least. But naughty enough to satisfy the revellers around him.

Third cup: Veritaserum. Fucking hell. No. The room fell silent.                  

"I would like to take this moment to remind you all that Potter can back out at _any_ time," Nott said with smug smile. "But if I'm not mistaken . . ."

He was not mistaken. Harry could do this. It was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do, but he could do it. He'd learned a few things about veritaserum, how to manipulate its effects and how to fight its pull. Unless Malfoy flat out asked him whether or not Harry wanted to him, he would be able to avoid saying it. And why would Malfoy ask a thing like that?

"Well?" Nott nodded to Malfoy, whose expression was unreadable. "Get thee to the locker!"

"Lockers, you mean," Malfoy said, not moving.

Harry paled as he glanced down at the paper folded in his hand. Never had he ever wanted to see the letter "s" so much in his fucking life. But alas, it was absent. He gulped. Not roomier than a broom closet, then. "It just says 'locker.'"

Malfoy's composure faltered visibly. "Nott, you can't be serious."

Theo shrugged. "Don't hate the player, mate. Hate the game."

"But we'll hardly be able to move in one of those!" Harry cried.

"Not my problem, I'm afraid."

Seamus piped up, "Oh come on, Harry YO--"

"If you say YOLT one more time I will fucking _destroy_ you, Finnegan," Harry said between gritted teeth. Seamus put his hands up in surrender. Harry took the tiny flask Nott held up in front of him and downed it in one gulp, then faced Malfoy head on. "Let's get this over with."

______

And that was how he ended up nose to pointy nose, hip to jagged hip, with Draco Malfoy, on his half birthday, in something that resembled an upright coffin more than a locker.

"Alright, Potter," Harry winced at the puff of Malfoy's breath on his cheek. "We can withstand seven minutes of this. And I'm going to make it worth my while."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Knew you would," he muttered. "Happy birthday to me."

If Malfoy was equally uncomfortable, he was much better at hiding it. "Hm, let's see. Why don't we start with something easy. Potter, what are all the good things you've ever thought about me?"

Harry panicked for only a second. _Okay, veritaserum, I know what you're looking for. Every good thing I've ever thought about Draco Malfoy. Every morally good, nice thing. I can do that._

The words came spilling out with confidence. "It was decent of you not to identify me at the manor. You are a worthy duelling opponent. You're good at potions. You have nice robes. You're a fast seeker. You have shiny hair. You--"

"Alright, that's enough," Malfoy huffed. Harry couldn't tell if he was pleased or not. He didn't seem quite satisfied. He may have figured out that Harry could manipulate the potion's effects by sticking to his own interpretation of the question, and he probably didn't want to waste these minutes hearing bland compliments. "Next question. What are all the bad things you've ever thought about me?"

Well, this was even easier. _Bad, unkind things I've thought about Draco Malfoy:_ "You're petty. I'm a better seeker than you are. I loved seeing you flop about as a ferret, and seeing Buckbeak scare the shit out of you. You were a coward. You chose the wrong side. You were self-seeking and rude. You're arrogant. You are too bloody handsome for your own goo--" oh, fuck. He'd gotten too cocky. _Stay with it, Harry. Don't get your guard down._ But it was too late for that of course.

"Stop." Malfoy said abruptly. "You think I'm handsome?"

Fuck. No getting around this one. _Just stick to boring, one word answers_. The time had to be up soon. "Yes." Harry said flatly.

"Elaborate." Malfoy enunciated every syllable in a low, seductive drawl. _Merlin_.

"That's not how this works, Malfoy," Harry responded, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I'm not under an imperious curse."

Malfoy changed tactics immediately. "Of course. Next question, then, Potter. Have you ever had . . . sexual thoughts about me?"

Oh, damn. Oh, fuck. But he could still recover from this, he could. "Yes," he said, but was quick to add, "We're eighteen, you tosser. I've had sexual thoughts about my firebolt for Merlin's sake."

"Touché," Malfoy breathed. Harry kept his muscles rigid, fighting the natural response that was bound to make itself known if this went on any longer. How many minutes could possibly remain? And was Malfoy really this cruel or could he actually be . . . into this?

Just then, he felt Malfoy's finger tips trail up his arm to his neck and trace circles on the back of his head. How did he know what that move did to him? Then Malfoy surprised him even further by leaning forward until his lips brushed Harry's ear and he whispered, "Have you ever . . . fantasized about me, Harry?" _Harry_.

Well, no need to worry about his rapidly growing erection at least. His life was over now. What did it matter? Malfoy was going to drag every mortifying detail from him, so his body having a natural reaction to being pressed against another body would be the least of his worries.  And Malfoy, well, Malfoy didn't seem bothered by it. Quite the opposite, in fact.

In _fact_ , Harry reasoned, maybe it was time to see just how unbothered Malfoy was. " _Yes_ ," he groaned into Malfoy's neck. "All. The bloody. Time." He felt Malfoy stiffen against him.

"All the--are you?" His voice was shaking, and higher than usual. 

"Serious, yes. Can't lie, remember?" Harry purred.

"H-how?" Malfoy stuttered. Harry grinned.

"How, what?" He asked innocently, rolling his hips. Fuck, that felt good.

"How do you fantasize about me?" Malfoy panted. Panting was good.

"How?" Harry repeated in a low tone. "How do I _not_ fantasize about you, you gorgeous bloody git? I think about you constantly, everywhere." He sped up his movements, and Malfoy responded. He wanted to stop talking--there were other things he could be doing with his lips--but the veritaserum wouldn't let him. He spoke breathlessly. "I think of pinning you down on a desk, or the Quidditch pitch, or the potions room table." It was a surprise, even to Harry, to list all the ways he'd thought of having Malfoy. "I think of sucking you off in the shower, I picture you on my bed, or in my lap, or--"

"Shut up," Malfoy growled. "Do not say another fucking word."

"I'm afraid you'll have to make me," Harry smirked. "YOLO, right?"

A tinkling charm signalled the end of seven minutes and the locker door fell open. The boys inside however, didn't even notice.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand fade to black. Sorry guys, that's all she wrote! Don't blame the writer, blame the word count ;)
> 
> I'm really not good at writing smut anyway so it's probably better if you fill in the blanks yourselves tbh. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
